Exile, Vilify
by Wepon
Summary: He was feverish with the drive to prove himself to the vision that materialized in front of him, that he was living for a reason. That he would finally see escape. That he was much more then a object for his own creation's amusement.  Rattman&WCC drabble.


**Exile, Vilify**

A fic by Wepon

_Exile. It takes your mind...again.  
>Exile. It takes your mind...again.<em>

The visions were back. Horrible, seething images that had reached fever pitch as fingernails grated against the drywall inlaid into the cold, unforgiving steel. Then he felt _her _presence. The cloying heart embellished on her front that distinguished her from those of much lower descent. Rattmann curled in on himself, knees drawn up to his chest as cheek pressed against the impossible cold throbbing below him.

"_You're but a single man. Give up. Die already._"

The cube taunted him, dangling death on a thin, scarlet cord in front of him like some beseeching, shackled, starved dog. Flesh turned a pale white as he tightened his grip on the slim sticks of chalk in his hands. Eyelids were drawn over his pale eyes, lips drawn into a thin line.

"_I still believe. In myself. And her._"

_You got sucker's luck  
>Have you given up?<br>Does it feel like a trial?  
>Does it trouble your mind<br>The way you trouble mine. _

"_What is keeping you alive? The false hope of some subject you don't even know? The interests of a mad AI? Sucker's luck?_"

Doug dared not let the salty water gathering on the rims of his eyes take over, not wishing to drop the drawbridge and let the ghosts of the facility wash over him. His entire form shuddered, as if his will to live was contained in that long, shocked breath.

The accursed demon conjured in his mind was correct.

And he hated it for that.

He would've given up.

_But he didn't._

He was feverish with the drive to prove himself to the vision that materialized in front of him, that he was living for a reason. That he would finally see _escape._ That he was much more then a object for his own creation's amusement.

Steadily, Doug Rattmann, former Programmer of Aperture Science, current Test Subject, rose.

_Exile. It takes your mind...again.  
>Exile. It takes your mind...again.<em>

He reached up, and arms made large, swooping arcs on the steel and drywall, leaving trails of his insanity behind them. Pictures stretched out before his vision, all imprinted on that wall. Eyes were blind, pupils seeing blankness and mind comprehending nothing.

Yet there it stretched out, phrases and pictures of divulged madness sprawled out all on the mighty face of the wall.

**'SUCKER'S LUCK'**

**'EXILE'**

**'TOO MANY VARIABLES'**

Images of hands, reaching out, grazing the beginnings of the pitch black steel. Tattered darkness and broken rays of light flying from their very palms, a plethora of manilla papers and shredded deckle edged sheets.

The strip of chalk fell from his loosened fingers.

_Oh, you meant so much...  
>Have you given up?<br>Does it feel like a trial?  
>Does it trouble your mind<br>The way you trouble mine.  
>Does it feel like a trial?<br>No, you're thinkin' too fast  
>You're like, marbles on glass <em>

"_What do you think you're trying to prove? That you've descended into madness? That you've entrusted falsified hopes to a stranger?_"

He could feel the cube's eyeless gaze bear into his back, and all at once, the man erupted.

Jaws parted, letting out the tangle of wild emotions that had contorted within him. Out of his mouth flew the song of mangled men, a discordant scream of broken notes, extricated by short periods of complete, stock still silence. No breath entered his lungs, and Doug was left standing there, howling like the broken man he was.

The cube remained silent.

_Vilify. Don't even try.  
>Vilify. Don't even try. <em>

Doug fell, lying limply on his side as he doubled over from lack of breath, stomach rising shallowly as he hyperventilated. He wheezed, a cough catching in his dry throat. No tears traced down the extreme pallor of his face. Nothing else came out.

He felt the cube dissipate, leaving no signs of it's disgustingly sweet presence.

And perhaps that was what made it all the more worse. His only friend in this hellish facility had disappeared into the broken dreams of slain scientists.

And now he was merely Doug Rattmann. A schizophrenic locked in his own sort of prison.

_You got sucker's luck  
>Have you given up?<br>Does it feel like a trial?  
>Does it trouble your mind<br>The way you trouble mine.  
>Does it feel like a trial?<br>Did you fall for the same emptinesses again? _


End file.
